Tuesday, April 2, 2013




The parched earth,
My dry throat,
When will the rains come
And cool our desperation?

The leaves wilt,
My shoulders sag,
The weight of worry pushes down,
Down on my heart.

The cattle low,
My voice trembles,
In this Africa our very survival
Shudders and shakes. 

The breeze cools,
My head lifts:
Is that a smudge on the horizon?
It is.

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